Eine Kleine Murder (12 page)

His voice grew harsh. “I think I know what happened to her, even if the police don't. She said something to Mo about him stealing her diamond earrings a few days ago, so he went over there and drowned her.”

The veins in his neck stuck out like the bones of the fish he was cleaning. He grabbed his knife, took a couple more swipes at a sunfish, set it down, and hacked off the head of a
good-sized catfish. What could I say? I knew one thing. He had enough troubles without me telling him about Mo attacking me.

“Maybe they'll find something.”

“Oh, they did.” His frown deepened the furrows above his nose. “After the autopsy call came in, Dobson sent a couple of cops back over here to do more searching. They found their beach towels and sandals in the water, weighted down with a rock.”

“Where?”

“Near the swimming area. About ten feet from the beach. I was there while they searched. Quite a few of us were. The cops said that's another sign they were killed.”

“I guess it is.” My words were grossly inadequate. A cold spasm ran up my spine.

“Ida's cabin key was tied up in the bundle, too. They gave it to Toombs.”

“I'm not swimming at night again.” Or probably during the day, either. I patted his gnarled hand and turned back toward my place.

Chapter 21

Niente: Nothing (Ital.)

The cabin felt snug and secure after I went in and locked the door. I stripped down and stood under a hot spray of water for a long time, letting the shower take all traces of Mo off me and down the drain.
I don't care if it is unfriendly, I don't want to see the junior Mr. Toombs anytime soon. Or anyone else, really.

I hadn't eaten much, but didn't feel hungry. The capricious cell phone was working, so I called Neek as I toweled my hair on the back porch, enjoying the air flowing in through the louvers, past the shades I'd drawn.

“Are you all right?” was the first thing she said.

“Well… ”

“I knew it. I should have called the minute I found it. I didn't know if it was for you or for someone else. I found a dollar bill today.”

“That's nice,” I said.

“No, that's a terrible thing! I knew something would happen. What was it?”

As I paced back and forth on the porch, I recounted my sighting of Len, Mo's attack, and my rescue by Daryl. I had since decided the near-drowning was deliberate, not mere “fooling around.”

“Oh, man! I'm glad you weren't hurt. It could have been awful. And there was another note from Len.”

He must have left it before he drove out here, I thought.

“I threw it away. But just think—a dollar bill.”

“I guess. That's bad, huh?”

“That's almost the worst money omen you can find.”

“Where do you get this stuff, Neek?”

“I don't get it anywhere. I just know. You know, whole civilizations have based their decisions on oracles. Look at Delphi, and the Roman sibyls.”

I told her I still hadn't arranged for a post office box for forwarding my bills, but would try and remember it the next time I went into Alpha. When I hung up, I was much cheered by our talk. Maybe she was nuts, but at least she was entertaining. The strange thing was, whatever she used for predictions, Neek was usually right.

Would I ever be free of Len? After Gramps died, I had given in to the persistence of my music theory teacher, Len, who had been trying to get my attention for two years.

He was the first older man I'd ever had a relationship with, and I had hoped he would treat me better than my previous string of undergraduate losers.

Len was married. Gram had given me the most normal homelife she could to counteract my unconventional early childhood. In spite of my strong moral upbringing, or maybe because of it, I plunged myself defiantly into the role of the “other woman.” At first it was exciting—the forbiddenness of it—and I was able to push Gramps's death to the back of my mind. Maybe the affair was my way of avoiding the grieving process and my guilt over how he'd died. The thought of him dying alone in the darkness haunted me. All because I hadn't changed a light bulb.

I quivered when Len would give me a private look in the hallway between classes; his eyes were piercing. A married man, a drinker, a smoker. I couldn't believe such a worldly man would be interested in a plain little music student like me. His hair was thin, but that just meant he was mature. In retrospect, I probably looked like a naive, gullible little girl: easy pickings.

Our fling was brief, but intense. Well, brief for me; I ended it after about two months. For Len, it never really stopped. When we first started seeing each other, I was the more enamored partner, while he found my infatuation cute. The tide soon shifted, though, and he grew obsessed with me, and I quickly grew bored with our relationship.

Some relationship. I would sneak over to his campus apartment, the one he used during the week, where his wife never came. He would order in dinner or fix steak and salad, the one meal he could make, and we would go to bed. That was it. It didn't take me long to grow tired of this routine. One morning, when it was still dark out, I got dressed to go home and said I wouldn't be coming over anymore.

“Till when?” he asked, his voice groggy with sex and sleep.

“No, Len.” I repeated my statement. “I mean, I'm not coming over any more. At all. I'm not seeing you again.”

“What's the matter? What did I do? What didn't I do?”

I didn't catch the menace in his tone. “Nothing's the matter, I'm tired of this whole deal, as I keep saying and you keep ignoring. It's the same thing every night and it's boring. I want to be out dating other people and I don't have time for it when I'm always coming over here. I want to do other things and go other places.”

Now he was awake. He lit his first cancer stick of the day and sucked while he thought. “Other people—what do you mean? Where would you like to go? Should we take a trip to Vegas? Or Mexico?”

“I don't want to go anywhere.”

“But, Cressa darling, you just said you did.”

“I'm not coming over anymore!” I shouted and stomped toward the door.

A frightening change came over him. His speed shocked me. I heard him coming, but, before I could turn around, he had yanked me by the hair and thrown me to the floor face down. The skin on my forehead split. Hot blood poured out. I scrambled up. I had to squint through the thickening flow from my head wound. His bare foot caught me in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me.

I still wasn't reacting quickly enough. Never in my life had I ever been physically attacked. But when he grabbed my little finger and twisted it until it snapped, I summoned up a rage-fueled strength and kicked him where men hate to be kicked.

While he writhed on the floor I screamed, “Get it through your incredibly stupid thick damn skull, Len, I'm leaving!” and stormed out. The cut on my forehead required two stitches and left a slight scar above my right eye. I wore bangs to cover it for awhile, until the scar faded. My finger healed, slightly crooked. Luckily, after getting used to it, it didn't hinder my playing.

Len obviously didn't understand what I said, though. He kept calling, texting, emailing, and threatening. Then, when I changed my phone number and email address, he started mailing letters and slipping notes under my apartment door. His threats escalated and I finally went through the hassle of getting a restraining order. The mail stopped but the personal notes didn't. It was unfortunate I couldn't afford an apartment with a doorman.

That's when I started carrying pepper spray full-time. That vial gave me enough confidence to leave the apartment and carry out my daily living. I was nevertheless in a state of constant anxiety that didn't really let up until I left Chicago three days ago for this calm, peaceful countryside. Populated with wife-beaters, molesters… and murderers.

Chapter 22

Ritournelle: 1. The burden of a song. 2. A repeat. 3. In accompanied vocal works, an instrumental prelude, interlude, or postlude (refrain) (Fr.)

I had never felt the absence of Gram so acutely. I fetched the afghan from the porch and wrapped it around me. It smelled like lilacs. I was thrown back to the day Gram had called to tell me about this cabin. And the day of our big blow-up. Actually,
my
big blow-up. My
stupid
big blow-up.

She had called on a Tuesday. “Cress, I've finally gone crazy.”

“What do you mean, Gram?”

“I just did the craziest thing I've ever done. I bought a cabin out at Crescent Lake and sold my house.”

I couldn't process what I'd heard. “Crescent Lake? Is that the lake we used to go to in the summer? Outside Alpha?” I fidgeted with my locket.
Sold your house? Our house? No!

“That's the one. Remember, you used to think you were named after the lake? This cabin is the cutest little thing. You have to come see it. It looks like Hansel and Gretel should live there, or maybe Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother.”

“You
sold
our
house
?” Her words were sinking in and I realized she had sold the only home I'd ever known. It was gone. “Do you have the piano where you are?”

She didn't. She had sold my piano, too. I was so angry, I refused to go see her and the new cabin. By the time I gave in and went to see her, she was dead.

Now, I wondered, though this was my connection to Gram, how I ever thought this cabin on the lake would be the ideal place to finish my symphony.

“The Chicken Dance” was back, wearing grooves in my brain. I finally remembered how it had come to be there; the bowling alley had been playing it when I had a burger with Mo and Daryl.

Utterly drained, I collapsed in front of the TV and lay like a log until it turned dark. Then, with my cell phone, my pepper spray, and my new flashlight tucked into my pockets, I ventured out to the front of the cabin for a short stroll, unwilling to get too far from the light splashing from my own windows. Way in the back of my mind, I was afraid Len would find me here. The chasm caused by Gram's death, my disorientation, the feeling I was losing my balance, were all letting up somewhat, beginning to recede. Perhaps due to the more immediate concerns: Mo's attack and the suspect circumstances of Gram and Grace's deaths.

I couldn't believe I had been stupid enough to let Mo trick me like that. I should have known something was very wrong when he drove past the service station. He said he wanted to show me something. What on earth had I been thinking?

The lilacs bled their fragrance into the heavy air as I passed them, brushing their
heart-shaped leaves with a hand that was, finally, steady.

I mustn't let Gram's special place be ruined. I have to find out the truth about her death and if Mo was responsible. I'll have to question him, regardless of how dangerous he is. But how?

What if the police never found out who murdered the poor women? After all, what did they have to go on? All I had was the word of two little girls, and no one ever believed children. It seemed so logical that Mo had done it. He had clearly demonstrated his propensity for violence. And there was the matter of the missing jewelry. If one or both of the women accused him and threatened to take legal action, would that be enough of a motive for him to murder them?

Maybe Martha would want to protect her darling son. Could she have killed them? I thought again of their lungs filled with mud. It would take someone stronger than Martha to hold down my Gram.

And if not Mo, not Martha, then who? Everyone liked both of the women. Well, obviously not everyone. I kicked at the gravel with all the viciousness that had been building up inside of me.

I had to face the fact that the killer might never be exposed. Could I stay here then? Even if the police did find out who was responsible, it wouldn't bring Gram back. It wouldn't change our last angry, strained months. It probably wouldn't heal my conscience. Maybe it was time to read the letter I had found in the cabin.

“Hi there,” a voice called. I looked in every direction, seeing no one. Then she called again and I realized Eve, the next-door baking dervish, was kneeling astride the ridge of her roof.

Alarmed she should be up there in the dark at her age, I asked what she was doing.

“Mending the roof. There's a hole up here and the squirrels are coming in and living in my attic. I've got to plug it up.”

“Do you need help?” She didn't look any too steady, teetering on the ridge. She stapled screen over the hole with quick, jerky movements. The staples
thunked
into the shingles.

“I have a flashlight,” I said. “Do you want me to come up and give you some light?”

“Oh no, dearie, I can do it myself. Nothing to it. I'll be done in a few minutes. I have to try and catch ‘em when they're all out. Hope there aren't any inside. I'm coming down in a minute.”

Should I stay and make sure she gets down safely? I would, but this wind is getting chilly. I don't have a jacket on, and my hair is still damp from my shower.

I shrugged and left her there. An independent woman, that's for sure.

Walking back to the cabin, I saw a piece of paper fluttering underneath a rock beside my front door. I knocked the rock aside with my toe, snatched up the paper and unfolded it. It was crudely lettered:

Ida Miller drowned. Period.

I almost dropped the paper. I reread it three times, getting angrier each time, trying to picture who would write such a thing and put it by my door. Ida Miller drowned? Period? Like hell she did!

The note wasn't proof, but it convinced
me
someone at this lake killed her. Anyone could have placed the note there, but who knew I was here and which cabin I was in? It also told me someone knew I wanted to find the killer. I shivered in the evening air and decided to stay inside.

The warm cabin welcomed me back. I crumpled the note. An irrational impulse to find Gram and tell her about the note flashed through my mind.

Cressa, you're hysterical. Gram is dead.

And someone had killed her.

I had to find out who had left the note. I owed it to my dear Gram.

Gram, can you forgive me for my stupid, petty anger? If I find your killer, if I write you a masterpiece—would that do it?

A tear fell on the wrinkled paper in my hand. I opened the door of the pot-bellied stove to burn the paper, then thought better of that, since it might have fingerprints. Instead, I stuck the paper on the counter, then lit the stove. The flames hypnotized me. They leapt in blurred beauty through my tears. The fire seared my soul with its first fierce blast. The warmth relaxed my stiff shoulders.

I blinked and my vision cleared. I knew Gram couldn't forgive me; she wasn't here to do it. I had to forgive myself. Easier said than done, like playing a seven-piece drum set. It also wasn't easy baiting the new traps with the cheese I had bought. The mousetraps came with instructions, but the instructions assumed you already knew how to do it before you started reading them. I mangled several pieces of cheese before I managed to get the delicate balance just right. My hands were shaky again. I snapped my finger twice. That's not a good thing for a keyboard player to do.

That night, I piled on the blankets, made sure the shades were drawn, and slept on the porch again. This time I had my flashlight handy in case of midnight excursions. My pepper spray was also handy.

The mystery surrounding my Gram's death was running through my head, keeping me awake, but I must have dozed off because I was awakened by a sharp
thwick
. I bolted upright in the bed, then realized it had been a trap going off. I smiled.

Ah, it's working. Soon I'll be rid of mice.

I had just fallen asleep again when the second one sprang. All was quiet for a few moments, then there was a scuffling sound. It stopped and started several times. I guessed the second mouse had not been killed and was struggling in the trap, dragging it around the floor.

I silently gagged, picturing the torture of the critter's gradual loss of life. I couldn't return to sleep with the chorus of death throes, and it went on for ages.

An owl sat hooting next to the porch, an eerie, haunting cry, like a hoarse ghost, saying
oo-oo-a-OOO
over and over. I was fascinated by the sound, and lay listening to it as the noises from the trap became weaker and weaker.

Then a startling scream brought me upright again. It came from the woods just outside the porch. A ferocious battle ensued on the ground of the forest with screams and snarls and grappling.

A light rain began to fall and I heard the huge wings of the owl flap past the porch screens after the battle had raged and quieted, but the victim had not been taken or killed. It continued to scream at intervals, then to whimper piteously, fainter and fainter, until it, too, was quiet. It took the poor creature about an hour to die.

Loss hung about me, a cold, unwelcome, smothering shroud.